Poems (Rossetti, 1901)/A Peal of Bells

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

A PEAL OF BELLS.

STRIKE the bells wantonly,
 Tinkle tinkle well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
 Ring the silver bell.

All my lamps burn scented oil,
 Hung on laden orange-trees,
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
 To golden lamps and oranges.
Heap my golden plates with fruit,
 Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
 Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours—
Silence that complaining lute—
Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
From hours that cannot come again.

Strike the bells solemnly,
 Ding dong deep:
My friend is passing to his bed.
 Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head,
 While foremost go his feet—
His feet that cannot carry him.
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
 Be still, your music is not sweet,—
There is no music more for him:
 His lights are out, his feast is done:
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
 His death is full, and mine begun.